Paragon
by Luolang
Summary: In the wake of Beacon's fall, Remnant is changing—and not for the better. New powers sprout forth, as both blessing and curse. Tensions between the Kingdoms grow and mysterious forces work in the shadows. Divided, the former members of Teams RWBY and JNPR will have to make their own paths in this new and uncertain world. A world of bloody evolution is about to become bloodier.
1. ONE

**ONE**

Qrow dropped the bucket, any thought of bringing back water gone. Snow crunched beneath his feet as he raced away from the stream, back into the wilderness. Taking the direct path would bring him straight into the packs of Grimm, but he didn't have the time to wait for them to pass or to try to find a safer route—he had to get to her before _it_ did.

The Scroll call had cut off into screaming and he didn't know if he would make it in time. He shot past a pack of Beowolves, startling them badly as they howled. A horde of Ursai stood in his way and he leaped right over them without missing a beat. Some of the Grimm tried to attack him, to get in his way, but he was too fast.

It was ironic: they had come to these woods precisely because they were Grimm infested. They had hoped to use them as cover, to use the eternal enemies of humanity as their own defenders. They had at least hoped that the Grimm would have slowed it down.

No luck there it seemed.

The small cottage was in sight, the door torn apart. Qrow reached behind his back to draw his weapon, the gears on the sword already beginning to spin as he plunged inside.

The first thing he noticed was the smell, so strong it made him want to double over and vomit. He found the cause soon enough and sagged, defeat washing over him.

What remained of Glynda laid in torn pieces on the ground, her face turned towards him. Her wand was still tightly clasped in her hand, several feet away from the rest of her body, next to her dismembered legs. She hadn't died well.

Above her torso stooped another figure, clad in what seemed like a solid coat of shimmering gold, covering nearly its entire body, with only a blood-red sash about its waist to stand out, hanging behind her like a crimson tail. Deep red hair hung like a lion's mane, as its hands plunged into Glynda's torso, tearing out viscera with wet ripping noises. Its fingers were pure white, so contrasted from the surrounding golden skin that they seemed like claws.

The head lifted up, revealing a woman's gilded face, staring at him with startlingly bright green eyes. One could call it beautiful, if not for the blood streaming down its chin as it continued to chew on the offal it had torn earlier from Glynda's corpse. It spat out a particularly long spool of intestine and rose to its full six foot height, stained in gore from head to toe. It was naked, with delicate, feminine curves, but its golden skin covered it like armor and the red sash concealed its groin, giving it a modicum of modesty.

The Nemean was here.

Qrow felt a trepidation inside him that he had never really felt before, not even when facing hordes of Grimm. The thing had seemed to have just popped into existence only a week after Beacon had fallen. It had stalked the Valean countryside, killing Grimm with ridiculous ease. At first, people had thought it was some sort of new, incredible Huntress, a golden savior to stem the tides of Grimm.

Not that anyone believed that anymore, especially with what happened at Atlas just a week ago. You could hardly consider what was left of the bodies there to be human, once the Nemean had been done with them.

Qrow looked sadly at Glynda's corpse. She hadn't deserved to die as horribly as this. Her face had remained intact, frozen in the terror she must have felt in her final moments. "Infinite in distance and unbound by death, I release your soul, and by my shoulder, protect thee," he whispered, before turning to glare at the Nemean.

Glynda was dead. There was no need for him to be here. If he tried moving away now, he might be able to get out clean. He could try escaping again, head further into the wilderness or even try to pass through one of the villages in this area. He could lead this beast on a futile hunt around the continent if it came down to it.

But he was tired of running away.

"Monster." Qrow growled, drawing his sword, the gears accelerating faster and faster.

The Nemean shook its hands, freeing some of the blood and gore along its arms. It bared stark-white teeth, somehow free of the blood that stained its face. They circled each other slowly, the Nemean seemingly satisfied to just wait, its fingers opening and closing at regular intervals.

"You just weren't satisfied killing those two assassins, were you?" Qrow said, fingering the handle that would transform his sword into a scythe. "You had to get everyone just vaguely responsible, even if you couldn't find that woman. That, and anyone that got in your way."

Qrow grinned. "Guess you're in mine now."

He revved the handle and the gears blurred, reaching full speed as the sword split into segments. It folded in on itself into a curved shape before the handle extended, leaving him with a long scythe.

The Nemean lunged at him. It was _fast_ , maybe even as fast as he was, but Qrow had been anticipating the attack. He stepped to the side, leaping off the wall and striking the Nemean across the back of the head, with enough power to pulp a human skull. The attack simply slid off the Nemean's head and Qrow spun in mid-air to avoid the its riposte.

He landed against the wall in a crouch, pushing off it a moment before the Nemean plunged through it, sending up plumes of gritty dust in its wake. He swept past the creature, swinging his scythe low and at its ankles, to trip it up.

He only succeeded in tripping _himself_ up, as the scythe caught against what felt like a solid wall and he lurched to a halt, falling flat on his back. The Nemean's fingers nearly gouged out his face before he rolled to the side, retrieving his scythe with him. He rolled backwards, turning it into a backflip as he got up to avoid a downward slash that gouged out stone.

Fighting in close quarters like this wasn't working. He'd take the fight outside. He faked a low slash before he spun around, jumping off the wall and through the hole in the rooftop above. He hopped off the roof, feeling the wind of the Nemean's fingers at his neck before he shot forward and away from the cottage, jumping some good distance away, the Nemean following.

He ran forward, the Nemean still chasing him. Then he came to an abrupt stop, turning back around as he held the scythe low. He coiled his legs, lowering his center of gravity and then sprang forward with explosive force, scythe held high as he and the Nemean rapidly approached each other.

He swung down with the scythe with all of his might, wind billowing around him with the sheer speed of the slash. The last time he had let loose like that, he had practically cut a small building in half.

Snowy earth exploded outward from the shockwave of the attack, a concussive blast of air devastating the landscape beneath him and vaporizing the snow below. It should have split the Nemean in two, ripped it apart with the sheer force of the strike, killing it instantly.

He might as well have tried tickling it. It was completely unfazed and it idly batted at the scythe as he passed over it. Qrow managed to pull back most of the blade, but the Nemean's fingers struck the very tip of it. It tore through the metal as if it were just paper, shattering it almost to powder. He tried not to swallow when he saw that: that had been one of his strongest attacks and the beast hadn't even _budged_?

Barely avoiding another attack as he landed, he turned around and began to run away again. As much as he prided his speed, it was perhaps as fast as even he was. The Nemean still hot in its pursuit, he turned the scythe back into a sword, the segmented blades re-joining. Then the sword folded forward, revealing the gun barrel.

If merely mundane physical force didn't cut it, then maybe Nature's Wrath would. He channeled his Aura into the round in his weapon's chamber and a burst of brilliant orange-red flame flared before the fireball struck the Nemean flat across the chest.

Nothing.

Another fireball had the same non-effect and Qrow kept running, barely avoiding another swipe at his head before he switched rounds. He shot a cluster of ice rounds that expanded into a solid, crystalline barrier, surrounding the Nemean. It simply walked through it as if it wasn't even there, shattering ice in its wake. It strode through blasts of lightning, fields of fire, barriers of ice, and even zones of altered gravity. Nothing seemed to affect it, nothing stopped it.

Qrow almost felt like laughing. This… _thing_ had shrugged off everything he had thrown at it, everything he could throw at it. Before, it had torn through fearsome Grimm and Atlesian Paladins alike, with almost contemptuous ease. What had he even been thinking of accomplishing here?

Summer always said he had a death wish.

The Nemean was at once both an unstoppable force and an immovable object. There was nothing he could do. He couldn't even hope to take it down with him to avenge Glynda. All he'd succeed in doing was killing himself.

He shot a trio of ice rounds. He didn't expect it to stop the beast—that was an impossible task—but he needed the concealment. He turned, drawing on his Aura once more, and he felt his body shift and contort as he assumed the shape of a crow. He flapped his wings once, twice, then took off.

He managed several yards out before the ground directly beneath him burst apart in an explosion of dirt and snow. Then he was sent spinning away in a confusing flash of ground – sky – ground – sky, agony consuming his animal body. He landed on the ground in human form, excruciating pain on his left side. Nothing remained of his left arm but a stump from the elbow down. His left leg was shattered, fragments of bone sticking out visibly. Years as a Huntsman told him that even the best doctor couldn't save it now. He stared dimly as blood flowed, staining the snow a deep red. It had been a long time since he had been hit hard enough to feel pain like this.

The Nemean had struck him right through his Aura as if it didn't even matter.

He tried sitting up, but he choked as a burning agony lanced into his gut, pushing him back down. He looked up to see its eyes, its fist caught right through his stomach.

 _Oh_ , he thought.

He had lost—completely. The Nemean pressed hard against him, the pain dizzying. Its other hand cradled his chin, forcing him to meet its eyes, brilliant green contorted with insane fury. He coughed blood as it mouthed something out. He tried to turn away his head, but the Nemean's hand kept him rooted in place and it pushed harder against his gut, making him cry out in pain.

It mouthed something as it pressed into him, and it took him a few moments to understand what it was saying.

"Oz.. pin?" A blubbering bout of laughter came to him, immediately dying away to gasps of agony from what that did to his stomach. "If we knew…" he said, between grunts of pain, "where Ozpin or… where that woman was… do you really think… we'd be in the middle… of _nowhere_ like this?"

He panted roughly, spitting out blood. "Didn't… James tell you that… before you… killed him?"

The Nemean opened its mouth in a silent snarl. He gasped as the Nemean began to rummage inside him, grasping something and pulling out bloody loops of something wet and lumpy. It brought it to its mouth, tearing into it with abandon.

He was being eaten alive.

 _Was this what Glynda felt like in the end?_ he wondered, a dim haze beginning to infiltrate his thoughts. She had died all alone, probably terrified out of her mind as this beast had torn her into pieces. Of all the ways to die, he had never imagined going out like this.

"We… we know you who are, you know," he said, managing to speak despite the incredible agony. The Nemean paused, blood staining its face again, and it looked up to stare at him, eyes narrowed. "I didn't expect… it myself, but it made sense… once we learned the truth. We got… the pictures after… you attacked Atlas… ran it through every… facial recognition program… we had. It was subtle but… the resemblance… was there."

He struggled to prop himself up, before he collapsed back on himself. "We… we all failed you. As much as… as that woman was responsible… so were we. Glynda… Ironwood, Ozpin, myself. You could say… that we deserved to pay… that you were right to do this. Maybe… maybe you could call it… our penance."

The Nemean didn't speak, still removing viscera from his gut. He didn't expect it to reply anyway.

"But what about—" He coughed, bloody splotches peppering its arm, "—all those people? They didn't… even do anything to you. You went after… anyone even barely… connected to us. Port and Oobleck… they didn't know anything. None of those… none of those people in Atlas knew anything. They were just… doing their duty. There was no need… to have killed… Winter."

"Will it… will it be worth it in the end… I wonder?" he said. It felt harder to form the words now, when he felt so sleepy. He willed himself to stay awake, to keep going. "Doing this… won't change things. It won't… turn back… the clock. You've become… just as big—" He cut off as the Nemean began to rip into his thighs as well.

"As big…" he said, gritting his teeth, every breath agonizing. "As big a monster as that _woman_."

The Nemean responding by lashing out with its hand, ripping into his shoulder with a spray of blood and Qrow screamed as his entire arm was torn out, flopping onto the ground. The Nemean took it and tore into it with relish.

It was becoming harder to breathe now and he was growing even colder than before. He needed to hang on for just a little bit more. There was one thing he still needed to say.

"If there's anything left…" Qrow said, unable to lift even his head, "of who you were before… please… don't hurt Yang or Ruby. They were… they were your friends… once."

The Nemean paused in its feast. It said nothing, its eyes drooping with what Qrow could have sworn was sadness. It gave the slightest, almost imperceptible nod.

Qrow relaxed, let a long breath escape him.

 _I'm sorry, Summer… looks like I can't watch over your daughters anymore_.

He watched the sky, the sun setting beneath the horizon. There was a loud _caw_ -ing noise, startling him, and he stared as a crow took flight from a nearby tree, flapping its wings as it swept above him.

He watched the crow disappear into the distance and he found himself chuckling in spite of it all. Sights and sounds began to dim, what was left of his body growing numb, but he kept laughing weakly all the same.

He reached his remaining good hand out towards the horizon, as if trying to grasp the sun.

"Wish I had a drink right n—"

The Nemean's teeth gleamed white.

—

 **Fight scene between Qrow and the Nemean partly inspired by the fight between the Siberian and the Protectorate in 15.z of** _ **Worm**_ **, Alexandria's interlude.**


	2. TWO

**TWO**

Firelight crackled in the darkness and he shuffled closer to it, the air frosty with winter's breath. He could still taste the remains of the crow on his tongue and he licked his lips to wipe off a stray spot of blood. When she hunted and fed, he preferred to do the same, to feel the same things that she did.

Outside, he could see the first touches of moonlight casting its rays onto the ground, giving the snow-patched earth a dim silver glow.

There was a rustling noise outside and she came into view, tracking in red-smeared snow as she stepped inside the cave. She walked into the light, revealing her gore-stained golden frame.

He smiled. "Hey."

She leaned casually against the cave wall, her skin rippling as the blood flowed off of her like water, splashing against the cave floor. She stretched, arching her back, her chest heaving, and he turned away in embarrassment. The smallest twinkle of mischief briefly sparkled in her green eyes and she strode towards him, the blood-red sash at her side bouncing lightly with each step.

She fell in beside him, her golden skin unmarred and free of the stench of blood. She leaned against him, her mouth drawn into the slightest of smiles, and he felt the touch of her skin on his, her body thrumming with power.

It had been challenging the first few days, for her to do anything besides utterly annihilate whatever she touched. To sit like she did now or even open a door, she had to confer her own protection upon it, granting it the same blessed invulnerability that she had. The world survived her touch only to the extent that _she_ dictated that it did.

It was only with him that she had no difficulty. For as formidable and terrifying as her power was, he knew he had nothing to fear from her touch. That had been true from the very beginning.

His hand trembled as he wrapped it around her waist, the other stroking her hair, marveling at the feel of her luxuriant red tresses. He stared at the fire and they just sat, side by side. He was content to take in the fire, savoring her warmth despite the artificial nature of it. It was the quiet moments like these that he enjoyed the most.

He felt his fingers brush against cool metal. His breath caught—it was the bronze headpiece that he had found back at… at the tower.

He had found it amidst a scattering of ashes, the only evidence to mark her passing.He had been tired, bleeding, and thirsty. He had cut down Grimm after Grimm in a mad haze of grief and fury without respite just to reach the tower's peak. He felt he would collapse at any moment but he didn't care as he waited for the one that would strike him down.

Just three days ago, he had been running back towards Beacon, killing any that had dared to get in his path. He had never fought so furiously in his life. He returned just to see the blinding light blaze at the top of the tower, a silver fire that seemed to purge any and all Grimm in its wake. He had thought it had been _her_ , that she had proven victorious after all.

How wrong he had been.

He had nearly fallen to his death several times just to scale the tower, but he persevered somehow. He had seen the dragon there, frozen like a statue, but he only had eyes for the scorched stone at the center: the bronze headpiece and the ashes that surrounded it.

He had collapsed there and then, letting out his grief and torment, content to lay down and meet his eventual end as well. He had failed, like he always had. He had never been strong enough, had never fast enough, had never been skilled enough. If he had, he wouldn't have had to lie and cheat just to have a chance. He had always wanted to be a warrior, like his ancestors, to watch over and protect his friends. But he was always the one lagging behind, left in the dust as his friends fought for their lives, bleeding for him where he was unable to do the same for them.

He didn't have the power for her to trust him to fight by her side. And he didn't have the power to save her either. On that tower, caught in the pits of his own despair, he had never felt more alone, more isolated and ready to give up. His anguish that caught the attention of a flock of Griffons and he had closed his eyes, ready to accept the end.

The world had drifted and he had been caught out of space, out of time. He didn't recall what had happened but _something_ did because when he returned to himself, _she_ was back. She had burned with an ardent golden light, casting her glow about to drape everything in shades of gold. The Griffons had tried to strike at her, but their raking claws crumbled to dust when they touched her gilded skin. He had reached out with his hand toward another one that tried to strike her on her back and she spun around to slap it across the face, disintegrating its head, the rest of its body dissolving into dust soon after. The remaining Griffons died just as quickly.

For a moment, he had thought his prayers had been answered. Even as altered as she was, she had come back to him. But he knew something was wrong when he looked at her eyes—devoid of emotion or will, her whole body frozen like a statue. It was only after the confusion was over that he realized that he was looking through her eyes as well, as though he had a second body. In moving his 'hand' or by speaking through his 'mouth,' she would as well.

She had come back to him, but more of a puppet than a person. She could only move when 'he' did. The cruelty of it had almost broken him again, that she came back more and less of herself at the same time, her life held entirely hostage at the whim of another. Immovable, implacable, indomitable, invincible—and yet powerless all the same. Anything she did, anything she said would just be a mockery of who she was before, a lie foisted upon her against her will, her life now tied to his.

He had felt like the worst kind of scum as he manipulated her body, using her to clear the intervening Grimm. He was terrified by the prospect that if he died, she would again as well, and he cast her about as his sword and shield, where he was too exhausted and weak to fight. Even now, even returning from her own demise, she was still the one protecting him while he was helpless to do anything else.

They had camped out at the tower's base for a few days, and he had no idea what to do. How could you fix something like this? It was after the fourth day that they dug their way beneath the school, down to the vault from before. The machines that were there earlier were ruined, scorched and smashed apart in the wake of the battle that had occurred. But still, he remembered when she had been put inside one of those things, when she had been screaming in pain before the woman in red had arrived.

 _Something_ had been done to her, something had been taken from her. They had wanted her for some reason—the woman in red… as well as Ozpin. If anyone knew what had happened to her, it would be them. She had been left half of a person and he didn't even know who to turn to. They traveled the countryside, slaughtering Grimm in their path, a mere sideshow to pass the time.

The first inklings of an answer came by pure chance. He had found one of the assassins who had worked with the woman in a village, completely unaware of his presence. The assassin had put up a feeble fight, but fell soon enough, but not before he had gotten the information he had been looking for.

It hadn't just been the woman in red that was responsible for her plight. It had been Ozpin and his little group as well. Amidst the assassin's dying screams he had stood, unsure what to think, what to feel. What had the assassin even mean by that? Could the people he had trusted as his mentors and teachers also be every bit at fault?

For weeks after he wandered, futilely searching from place to place, no sign of answers in sight, the prospect of success growing dimmer and dimmer. He had often spent his waking hours simply staring at her, unable to find anything like a sense of direction or purpose. What could he do? What should he do? He thought of resigning himself to their combined fate, for her to be the puppet and him the puppeteer.

But then he looked into her eyes, and there was something in that emptiness that pierced through him, measuring him, judging him, as if finding him wanting. He would be forced to turn away, ashamed. How could he doubt her, how could he even thinking of abandoning her, when she had crossed through the veil of death to return to _him_?

It was chance once more that smiled on them. The other assassin he found in a village far off in the wilderness, with no sign of civilization for miles. This one, he took his time with. Between screams of pain and terror, he gleaned the truth he had been seeking. Ozpin and his group had wanted _her_ for their own purposes as well, to use her as a puppet for their own agenda, to murder her identity so long as her flesh remained intact for their own goals.

He had never imagined that they would have gone to such lengths, to try to mutilate her soul like they had. Before… before that night, she had asked him about destiny, about how she could have fulfilled hers, but at the cost of who she was. He hadn't understood what she had meant at that time but now, when it was too late, he did.

The woman in red may have killed her, but it was _they_ who had provided the bullet. They had put her into that position in the first place, they who had manipulated her for their own purpose. He had trusted them, thought the best of them, but they just been vipers in human skin.

In his fury they had razed that village to the ground, torn apart human and Faunus alike that dared to get in his path. They slew without rhyme or reason, without rest or reprieve. Later, covered in the blood of the fallen, he had stared at his hands for some time, saying nothing, doing nothing. And there, standing among the destroyed houses and torn bodies, turning to face her, he had seen something he could scarcely have believed.

She had _smiled_.

Very, very faintly, but a smile nonetheless.

At times, he thought that she was just an illusion, a solid hallucination held under his sway, that she wasn't even real. He had almost been resigned to thinking that she would remain a lifeless puppet, just an empty extension of his will, even as guilty as he felt to harbor such doubts.

But then she had smiled. He hadn't made her do that, he could have sworn it.

It had been a sign, a message telling him he was on the right path. Even now the gestures were small—little twitches of her lips, a flickering in her eyes, so minute that you could easily miss them. Anyone else would have told him that he was just imagining it, attributing some unconscious act of his own will for hers. But, in those moments, he could see _her_ again, just like she had been before. It had to be her doing that, he would stake his life on it. It told him that she was still there, still the woman he had known, just waiting to be let out.

It was then that he realized what he had to do, no matter the costs. No matter how blackened his soul might become, _would_ become, he owed it to her to set things right—regardless of who or what got in the way. She had come back to him, saving his life like she always did. This time, it was time that he helped _her_.

As if in response to his thoughts, her hold around him tightened fractionally, as she leaned further against him. He looked down at her, resting her head against his chest as he continued to stroke her red locks of hair.

"We'll get them," he murmured, staring at the sizzling sparks and embers of the fire. "All the people that ever did this to you, I promise you, we'll get all of them, every single one. I won't let anyone stop us. We'll find Ozpin and that woman. We'll make it right again, I swear it."

She looked up into his eyes, greeting him with radiant pools of argent light. If you looked just close enough, you could see the light in them flickering, little flashes that you might dismiss. Over time, he had painstakingly developed an understanding of what that meant, of what _she_ was saying. Every flicker and flash, every minute twitching of her lips had a meaning and he had a pretty good idea of what she was saying right now.

It seemed to be her favorite three word sentence again.

He arched an eyebrow before her golden mouth quirked in a slight smile in response. He laughed, pressing himself up close against her, wrapping his arms around her back.

They still hadn't found Ozpin or the woman in red. He didn't know where to find them, he wasn't sure what path would take them to restoring her back to herself. There were still mysteries and puzzles they hadn't solved, enigmas that seemed out of reach. Anyone else would have given up this quest, called it quits, considered it futile.

And with all they had done so far on this journey, the world had probably turned against them. No one would want anything to do with them.

But he didn't need the world. He didn't need anyone else. He wouldn't despair over what might have been.

He pressed his lips against hers.

After all, he had his invincible girl.

—

 **It's interesting how the Siberian projection would work as a power for Jaune here. Think about some of his core insecurities: he's worried about not succeeding under his own power, of being a failure (see his conversation with Pyrrha after he reveals that he cheated his way to Beacon). And with Pyrrha's demise, he would have been anguished by the idea that he had failed to protect the woman he loved (after a fashion).**

 **Now, he gets "her" back, now truly invincible in death. His power is basically his greatest failure, when he was once again "the loveable idiot stuck in the tree while his friends fight for their lives." And note that** _ **he**_ **doesn't actually get any power either—once again, it's "Pyrrha" who's doing all the work, even past the grave. And her return doesn't make things any better: she's basically a puppet, a continual reminder of his failure and loss, and so now you've got the rather… questionable dynamic between "Pyrrha" and Jaune that it's degenerated into.**


	3. THREE

**THREE**

The air thrummed with a high-pitched humming sound as the portal opened, a red-black tear in space. The woman stepped through, flourishing her sword before sheathing it.

She stood in a snow-covered clearing, some distance away from a quaint cottage, with only moonlight to see with. Grimm of all shapes and sizes littered the landscape, having been called here by a particularly potent concentration of negative feelings. The amassed Grimm turned to face her, baying and howling as they charged.

With a gauntleted hand, she spun the Dust chamber along the scabbard, grasping her sword's handle with the other. She stopped on the round she wanted and then slowly drew her crimson sword once more, the blade elongating to over twice the sheath's length in an instant. She simply pointed her sword at the rampaging Grimm nearly upon her, standing her ground before the charging collection of Ursai, Beowolves, and Creeps.

The next two minutes could hardly be called a fight.

She sheathed her sword once more, the remnants of the final Beowolf disintegrating into black dust. Off in the distance, a wounded Goliath slinked away, intelligent enough to know when to cut its losses. She debated chasing after it to finish it off but decided not to—she wasn't here to exterminate the local Grimm population.

She strode towards the cottage, each step measured and precise, her thigh-length black boots sinking deeply into the snow. Drifting snowflakes idly wafted by, sprinkling against her red coat. As she approached, she could see the devastation it had suffered: the door was blown apart, pieces of stone rubble were strewn around it, and the entire roof appeared to be missing. She walked in through, the scent of death and decay growing stronger, even beneath her mask, shaped like a Grimm bird of prey.

The remains of the female Huntress laid near the center of the broken cottage, torn into so many tattered pieces that you'd need a broom and a dustpan to collect them all. She paused as she took in the sight.

She had been too late. Far too late.

She stooped down by the Huntress's head, her face unmarred and untouched. Her soft, pale face was frozen into a rictus scream of fear, her light blonde curls stained red. She closed the dead woman's eyes before rearranging the rest of the body as best as she could into a semblance of dignity. For as commonplace as death and destruction were on Remnant, for as used to it as she had become, even she knew there was a place for ceremony and tradition. The dead were owed at least one final respect.

She rose, closing her own eyes, and spoke the prayer beneath her breath.

She opened her eyes, withdrawing a crystal from a pouch and channeled her Aura through it, tossing it upon the corpse. Orange-red fire flashed into life, consuming the dead woman's body, the flesh beginning to warp and blacken.

She turned away from the sight and stepped back onto the snowy plain, even as fire blazed behind her.

She saw tracks leading away from the cottage, further out towards another clearing. She followed them along, noting the two distinct sets of footprints. She could see where one jump had begun and where another ended, evidence of a running battle that had occurred recently. Telltale scorch marks and ashes spoke of Dust usage and a massive crater some distance further spoke of the sheer ferocity of the combat that had happened.

She continued along until she saw a reddened patch of snow some distance off, a flock of crows assembled on the ground around something else. One of the crows turned her way, cocking its head inquisitively as she approached. She lashed out with a hand, sending the crows flying away in a frenzy, scattering in a cacophony of cawing beaks and flapping wings.

Then she saw the figure that had been unveiled.

She staggered, an uncharacteristic welling of emotion rising inside her, piercing through the armor she had raised around her heart.

For several minutes she stared at the broken remains of the man, at the shattered weapon by his side, saying nothing, doing nothing. His eyes were closed, looking peaceful in death, as though he were simply sleeping. She bowed her head, remaining silent.

Then she straightened herself, drawing upon her sword once more, charged with Dust. She pointed it skyward, bathing the area around her in pale, blue light.

"For it is in passing that we achieve immortality," she murmured. "Through this, we become a paragon of virtue and glory to rise above all. Infinite in distance and unbound by death, I release your soul, and by my shoulder, protect thee."

She plunged the burning sword into the snow besides the corpse and azure light flared. The snow hissed as it quickly liquefied, washing away some of the blood on the man's body. The fire raced to meet the corpse, licking at its sides, before the body burst into cerulean flames, burning with an almost unnatural intensity. Smoke wafted skyward, carrying the man's essence, as if conveying his spirit towards the heavens.

She watched the corpse crumble into dust, let herself inhale some of the fumes, and stood before it until the last spark was extinguished, until all that was left was blackened ashes mixing in with water and snow.

She sheathed the sword, closing her eyes for a moment, before opening them again, searching for the tracks. Blood-covered footprints continued on in a different direction and she followed them swiftly.

She walked some further distance on before she came to what looked like an out of the way cave, hidden by an outcropping of trees. She held her sword low and at the ready, pushing past the trees as she came to the cave's entrance. In an instant, she plunged into the cave, her sword held high, ready to attack at the slightest sign of a threat.

There was nothing.

The smoky aftermath of a fire laid in the center, as the trail of blood abruptly came to an end, sitting in a pool of dried blood. She frowned, following the tracks forward as they seemed to approach where the fire had been, ending at a spot just before it. She was about to continue further when she paused, as she saw what looked like a _different_ set of tracks also leading into the cave.

They were so faint against the stony surface of the cave, a mere collection of scuff marks. Anyone else would have missed it, but very, very few had her skill when it came to tracking.

She slowly circled around them, careful not to disturb them as she examined them. This one had broader shoulders it seemed, its legs further apart. The size of the footprint indicated at least someone six feet tall. But it was the gait that told her that a _man_ had made those tracks and the scuff marks and tracks circled around the fire, resting just _beside_ where the first set of tracks ended.

And as she looked at the tracks leading out of the cave, it looked like they had been walking out _together_ , even as the second set of tracks suddenly disappeared.

She sheathed her sword once more, eyes distant as she contemplated the facts. The beast had been, by all accounts, entirely on its own. This spoke of something entirely different, of someone actively working with or _for_ the creature. The fact that this man had not yet been seen with the beast suggested that either he hadn't done so because he preferred to work from the shadows… or perhaps because he wasn't _strong enough_ fight alongside it.

A weak link in the chain.

And given how close the two had been sitting, there was a deeper connection between the beast and the man, something no one could have expected. She withdrew her Scroll and took a few pictures of the place. She was about to place it back in her pouch before she stopped, the alert for a new message on the screen.

She opened it, revealing a single file, which appeared to be some sort of dossier, complete with a set of pictures. On the one side stood the beast that had been here before. On the other was someone else and she gave a start when she saw who it was.

She didn't understand the import of it until she looked more closely, but the realization was dawning on her even as the text below already confirmed her suspicions.

This creature… had been human before. More than that, the creature looked like _her_ , the one they had selected before for the procedure. She wasn't sure what it was supposed to mean, if it really spoke to the possibility suggested in there. The report itself was inconclusive after all. But between that and the evidence she had seen here, it was more than anyone else had to go on.

And she had hunted down monsters with less.

She returned the Scroll back to the pouch, a cold determination and focus enveloping her, hardening her mind to ice and her will to steel.

In ancient times, ravens were supposed to signify war and battle, portents of death and destruction. Warriors would erect banners depicting them as they marched to war, to inflict fear on their enemies as they rode them down. When the battle lines met, it was the ravens that led the charge.

She took out her sword and slashed the air once, opening another portal of red-black, a doorway to a different place.

She turned back to look out of the cave, back towards where the corpse of the man had been. She stood for a few moments, simply staring. Then she spun back to approach the portal, sheathed her sword as she stepped through it.

She would find this beast and its partner, to show it the truth of that legend.

That the ravens had gone to war once again.

—

 **Was sorely tempted here to give Raven a fedora. :P. The bit about the ravens is a riff off of the "Raven Banner," which was a real thing.**


	4. FOUR

**FOUR**

The bartender rubbed the dingy glass with a rug, squinting in the dim light as he tried to wipe off one particularly stubborn stain. Smoke floated by from one of the tables, the musty scent of nicotine and ash reaching his nose. Overhead, the ceiling fan whirred, wobbling unsteadily, the aftermath of a fight here last month. The lights flickered every so often, some of the bulbs beginning to fail. He'd have to get those fixed sometime soon—that'd been the second time this month they'd started going bad early.

On an upraised platform by the corner, a quartet of musicians played a rhythmic jazz beat, the saxophonist killing it as a few patrons tossed Lien onto the stage. Voices melded and mixed in with one another, everyone caught in their own worlds within the fairly limited space of the bar.

"Another round, bartender!" shouted one of the patrons over the music, sitting at a table close to the exit. The passing waitress yelped as he swatted at her backside, jostling her serving tray.

"Jerk!" she said, glaring at him. He only leered back in response and she turned away with a huff.

The three others with him at the table, all Faunus judging from their ears, laughed uproariously in response as they chugged down beer. On the table beside them, another group of Faunus appeared to be in heated discussion, smoking cigarettes and passing around a bottle as they played their card game.

By the counter, a trio of men were caught in what appeared to be a serious discussion, voices low.

"… should have known Atlas would be up to no good. To think they'd pull a stunt like that during the Vytal Festival…"

"… restarting the old radio backups while the Council's going to figure what to do with the CCT situation and Atlas…"

"… going to do with Beacon gone? Scary to think that there's so many Grimm so close to the city still…"

The bartender brought out another jug of beer and handed it to the waitress. He leaned back away from the counter, watching the patrons and taking in the energy of the crowd. It wasn't a particularly large bar, and he couldn't say that he brought in the numbers or the cash you'd get from one of the joints in the fancier parts of Vale, but it was _his_.

Being a bartender let him meet people from all walks and stations in life—the rich, the poor, the rogues, the would-be heroes, and more. For as long as he'd been at it, he had gained a certain knack for reading people, being able to discern who was who. He could lend a sympathetic ear, play faux therapist if need be.

He'd probably do just as well at reading someone as any of those hoity-toity psychologist types could or something. That said, all of the insight in the world wouldn't have saved his second marriage. He was lucky he hadn't had any kids in the both times he'd tried before he'd given up on the idea entirely.

Still, he did what he could. He enjoyed the guessing game almost as much as the money he collected.

The man and woman who were arguing at the corner of the counter? Boyfriend, girlfriend, he guessed. Boyfriend brought girlfriend to try to make up for something, but he hadn't said the right things, was probably going to blow it. The woman slapped the man abruptly. She stood up and walked away, exiting through the door as the man stared after her the entire time, looking devastated.

A pair of men drunkenly supported each other, singing off-key as they drained a shot each. They had been drunk before they had even arrived here and were dressed to the nines in expensive looking tuxes. Bar hoppers—they must have started off with the more exclusive places before making their way here. He heard another yelp as the Faunus from earlier harassed his waitress again—he wouldn't have been surprised if they were gang members, maybe even White Fang, not that he'd voice his suspicions.

It was a gathering of people with broken hearts, intellectuals, folks looking to drink themselves unconscious, lowlifes and thugs, and more.

All in all, just another typical night.

Then the door opened and someone rather… _different_ walked through the door.

Cool air blew in, carrying the barest hint of winter's chill. Heavy boots went _clack-clack_ as the stranger strode across the wooden surface of the bar and he could see that the stranger was slightly favoring their right leg. A long, black-gray cloak concealed their body, parted in the middle and occasionally revealing white undertones beneath as the cloak swayed with each step. A spiral of red leaves slowly swirled behind them, carried by along by the cloak's wake.

A hood kept him from seeing the face, with a scarf underneath to conceal the lower half. The cloaked figure wasn't particularly tall, perhaps only five-and-a-half feet at best, and presented a slim figure. And yet, all the same, this person had _presence_.

The bartender had been around the block a few times. He'd gotten into his share of scraps, run with a couple of gangs in his time, even with one of the big names before they'd died out. Full-blown combat training had never been in the cards for him, but he could hold his own in the typical brawl, even now. All that time and experience had taught him something. He knew a thing or two about getting the measure of someone, about what kind of person they were once the chips were down: survivor or victim, go-getter or drifter, predator or prey.

And right now, those instincts were screaming at him that whoever this cloaked figure was, they were dangerous.

Not the most dangerous he'd come across by far, but more than dangerous enough. As they walked, a few near the door turned to look in their direction and moved away, as if physically repelled by the energy radiating off of them. Conversations quieted as the stranger stepped inside, eyes swiveling as nearly everyone inside the bar tracked their movement.

Dark red leaves fell off the underside of the cloak as the figure approached the counter, people stepping out of their path. The stranger sat down right in front of him, interrupting the conversation of the three men who still hadn't touched their drinks. Within the darkness of the cloak, he couldn't even see the eyes.

"White Atlesian. Milk, no cream."

The voice was soft, feminine. A young woman?

The bartender looked at the cloaked woman for a couple of seconds before he took out a glass. "One White Atlesian coming right up."

As he prepared the drink, he watched the newcomer, who sat silently. Conversation began to pick back up in the bar again, as people returned to their business, shaking off the momentary oddity. He let the milk on top of the drink settle, leaving a smoky swirl of brown and white.

"You know," he commented, as he handed her the finished product, "that's not a very popular drink these days."

"I don't tie my taste in drinks to politics," the cloaked woman said dryly, stirring the drink with a straw, before lowering her face and presumably her scarf as well. She drained the entire drink in two pulls, putting the glass back down.

"Refreshing," she said, something almost like a purr undertoning her words.

She got up off the stool and withdrew a hand within her cloak before tossing several Lien notes onto the counter—at least five times more than what the drink would cost. "Sorry about this," she murmured.

The bartender stared at her in confusion. "What?"

The newcomer strode over to the table where the Faunus group was still being rowdy, slamming their beer mugs onto the table's surface. She stopped directly in line with one of them—the biggest one, a bulky stag Faunus, with large, bone-white antlers protruding from either side of his head. After a moment, they noticed the cloaked woman in front of them and their voices began to die away, as they slowly put down their drinks.

"Something we can do for you, stranger?" asked one of the men sitting to the left of the stag Faunus, a wiry cat Faunus by the looks of it.

She continued facing in the direction of the stag Faunus, her arms within her cloak. "I'm looking for Quicksilver Pete."

The stag Faunus chuckled, even as his buddies around him and the table next to him tensed up.

"Quicksilver Pete, huh? Can't say I've ever heard of him. What makes you think we know anything about whoever that is?"

"Because _you're_ Quicksilver Pete," she said with an even voice.

The Faunus snorted. "Hmph. Let's say I am this 'Quicksilver Pete.' What would you want with him?"

"I have some questions for him," she said. "Regarding who he's working with, who _you're_ working with. Questions regarding the White Fang." Her voice rose with as she spoke, saying the final two words loud enough to be audible even with the music going.

At that, conversation at both tables began to die away. A few patrons on the tables next to them shifted warily in place, eyes centered on the cloaked stranger.

"That," the stag Faunus said slowly, "is a pretty dangerous question to be asking, girlie. Why don't you just drop it and walk away?" Beside him, the other Faunus began to shift in their chairs, eyes locked onto the cloaked woman with decidedly unfriendly looks. A couple began to rummage under the table and the bartender suspected there was a weapon or two in play there.

"Sorry," the woman said, remaining perfectly still despite the unstated threat of immediate violence. "I can't do that. There's information on the White Fang that you have that I need and I _will_ get it."

The stag Faunus—or 'Quicksilver Pete' apparently—suddenly grinned ear-to-ear. "Oh, is that right? See, there's a problem with that logic, girlie: if I was White Fang, then it wouldn't be too smart to come up here face-to-face like this. And actually try to _threaten_ me like that. That's not something I can just let go, you see."

He waved a hand dismissively. "Boys, why don't you teach this girl a thing or two. Just don't be too rough."

The collected Faunus rose from the two tables, dropping cards and putting down their mugs, moving around to encircle the cloaked woman. With Quicksilver Pete, there were eight in all, and the bartender could see bulges for what must have been concealed weapons. People around the bar started edging for the door, but the confrontation in the middle blocked the only exit out. The jazz musicians kept playing, oblivious to the unfolding spectacle.

A rabbit Faunus was moving up directly behind her, chuckling drunkenly. "Why don't ya sho' us wha's 'neath tha' cloak, honey?" He got closer and closer, pawing at her hood. "Are ya tryin' ta hide 'cause you're some ugly—ooof!"

The Faunus doubled over himself and from this angle, the bartender could see something rectangular bulging out from behind the stranger's cloak, directly in line with the rabbit Faunus's… family jewels. He winced sympathetically.

The Faunus groaned as he collapsed onto the ground, covering his groin with his hands. For a few moments, no one spoke, just looking at the downed Faunus.

Then everything started happening at once.

"Get the girl!" Pete shouted, plunging a hand into his coat. The girl, for her part, didn't waste time as Pete withdrew a pair of cudgels. She swung forward with her left arm, cloak trailing behind her, gripping something long and rectangular. The handle to what looked like a sword slammed into Pete's chin, sending him stumbling away and crashing into another table. Drinks went flying as people screamed, Pete's weight collapsing the table in and on itself.

With a quick flourish of her left hand, she held her sword horizontally to the ground, even as a pair of Faunus raced at her by the sides. With pale hands, she violently unsheathed the blade, catching the thug on the left in the throat with the butt of the sheath and the one on her right with the bottom of the sword's handle. She twirled in place, finishing them off with a slash of her sheath and sword to the side of their heads and they crumpled.

And the music was still going. Heck, the bartender swore that they were playing _better_ now.

Her cloak billowing around her, she spun up away from a low slash of a cat Faunus's swordstick, landing on top of the table. She lashed out with her feet, revealing black boots as she kicked away the cat Faunus, holding her gray, rectangular sheath in a reverse grip in her left hand while her other held her curved sword.

Two others—a dog and mouse Faunus respectively—tried to crowd around her, one shooting at her with a submachine gun, the other wielding an axe that came out of nowhere. The bartender could barely see what happened next: she parried the gunfire as she jumped over the dog Faunus—there was a flash of white beneath her cloak—whirling back around to catch him across the back of the head with both sword and sheath, sending him collapsing to the ground.

Pete was back in action again and he connected the cudgels to form a two-barreled shotgun. The woman ducked away from a pair of shots, which shattered two tables behind her in a brilliant explosion of red and blue, sending people cowering to the floor. For their part, the two drunk bar hoppers stared at the whole display curiously, continuing to drink even as the cat Faunus from earlier was slammed against the wall next to them, sliding to the ground with painful slowness.

The bartender ducked under a flying plate knocked away during the fight. He threw himself towards the ground as a trio of stray shots raked left to right across the counter, sending liquid and glass fragments spilling everywhere. He felt something tugging at his legs and he saw the waitress, on the ground beside him.

"Shouldn't we call the cops?" she whimpered.

"With what working Scrolls?" he hissed back, getting back up to risk a look.

The cloaked woman jumped away from another table to land on the one next to it, Pete's shot destroying that one as well. A ram Faunus charged at her, a pair of heavy gauntlets around his fists, as Pete took aim for another shot. The woman was staring at something on the other side of the room, her whole body tensed. The music had reached a climax as the woman hesitated for an instant. She looked left and right and then slashed out with her sword.

There was a howling sound like a gale, a black-and-amethyst blur flashed, and one moment where the cloaked stranger was before, she was suddenly across the room, the table she stood at before utterly obliterated. The mouse Faunus was at her feet, his eyes rolled into the back of his head from unconsciousness, a nasty collection of welts all over his body, a grenade launcher held limply in his hands. The woman staggered slightly, as if surprised, her hood lowered as she appeared to stare at her sword, her cloak fluttering from an unseen breeze.

Pete's next shot connected, illuminating her figure in a flash of red-and-blue, sending her spiraling to the floor. She recovered well enough, rolling away from the ram's charge which gouged a hole in the bar's wall. Bracing against the floor with her sheath, she flipped up in the air, avoiding another shot from Pete as she almost casually dispatched the ram Faunus in a flurry of whirling strikes too fast for the eye to track.

She sprinted towards Pete, easily weaving around each shot. Pete snarled in anger and pulled the shotgun apart, now a pair of cudgels in his hand once more. He tried lashing out with them, his arms moving in a frenzy, but the woman parried or avoided his strikes with expert precision. In three quick moves, she disarmed him, struck him across the back of the knee to send him staggering towards the ground, and finished him off with a slash to the side of his head. His body briefly flashed white as his Aura dropped and he fell, antlers digging into the wooden floor as he breathed heavily.

The woman stood, surrounded by the destruction around her. At some point during the fight, the ceiling fan had fallen clean off, leaving only sparking wires above. The floor was gouged and blackened, with fragments of wood and glass everywhere. The bodies of the unconscious Faunus were everywhere, the battle somehow traversing the width of the entire bar in the space of all of thirty seconds. Somehow, people had managed to avoid the worst of it, cowering near the corners of the room.

By this time, the music was fading, as the band hit the tail note of their piece.

The woman strode forward, twirling sword and sheath before she returned the blade to its scabbard with a click. Bits of glass and wooden splinters fell from her cloak as she walked across the devastated bar. She stopped before Pete's prone form and stooped down, gripping him by an antler. Pete groaned and protested as he was dragged across the floor, sending more people whimpering away from the pair of them. Despite his bulk and her light frame, she lifted him up off the ground and slammed him against the wall, rousing him with a start and a cough. She held out the sheath up against him, just under his throat.

"Wait, wait!" he said. "I'm sorry for what me and the boys did, we—"

She pressed harder with the sheath. "I don't care about why you did what you did. You're just going to answer my questions."

They began to speak in low voices, the woman continuing to hold Pete aloft. After a minute passed, the whole room tense as people took in the aftermath of the fight, the woman was apparently satisfied, letting Pete crumple back to the floor, returning her sheathed sword to beneath the folds of her cloak. She knelt down and whispered something to Pete, who looked only too eager to agree.

"These men are White Fang," she said, rising back to her feet and looking directly at the bartender. "They won't be moving for some time and if the police talk to this man specifically," she lightly kicked Pete on the ground, "he'll tell them what they want to know."

Her cloak billowed as she stepped over Pete across the devastated floor, heading towards the bar's exit. She paused just before she went through, turning around.

"Sorry about the mess."

She left, leaving the door swinging back and forth. That seemed to be a cue for people to come back to themselves, as they got to their feet, the danger over. The bartender simply took in the state of the bar—the ruined floor, the broken tables, the gouged-out walls, the blown lights, and the broken bottles and glasses next to him.

Then he sighed and picked up one of the bottles, pulling out a rug, and started wiping off dust and grime.

All in all, just another typical month.

"This is going to be such a pain in the ass to fix."

—


	5. FIVE

**FIVE**

Each step left a deep footprint, the boots sinking into the soft snow. Her hood and her scarf helped ward off the worst of the cold, but the chill was ever-present. Snowflakes floated down like spiraling stars, flecking off the back of her hood and cloak. Ahead, the shattered moon hung high in the sky, illuminating her path.

The small warehouse was well within sight, an innocuous looking building of grays and whites, covered in snow. Her eyes drooped with weariness and her stomach growled with hunger. All the same, she kept herself upright. She strode calmly towards the warehouse, her cloak swaying in the winter breeze, the edges tattered and frayed.

In a world covered with white, her dark form stood out like a beacon.

Stealth was not the objective here.

With the soft sounds of shifting snow, they came out from all around her sides, almost popping into existence as they erupted out from beneath the surface around her. Perhaps twenty in all, they wore white vests over hooded, black bodysuits, gray, metallic masks covering everything from the nose up. They pointed guns, swords, axes, and more her way, their weapons trembling in their hands as they shivered.

How long had they lain beneath the snow to set the trap?

"R-really stupid of you," said the one in the center, a pair of horns sticking out of his head, an impressive looking rifle in his hands, "to be wearing b-b-black in the middle of w-w-winter like this. Saw y-y-you from miles out. P-p-put your h-hands up."

She complied, raising her hands out from under her cloak, revealing a pair of glossy black gloves, going well past her elbow.

"T-take him inside to s-s-see the – the boss," said the man from before, jerking his head. Behind her, someone prodded her forcefully with a shotgun and she was sent stumbling forward, but managed to adjust her step and recover in time.

She shuffled along in silence, the thug behind her prodding her every so often. Beside her, the others watched her warily, the warehouse looming into view as they approached. A gray rolling door barred their path and the Faunus in the front took out a radio, barking something into it. After a moment, the door began rolling up, letting light from within stream out to reveal the inside of the warehouse.

Even from here, she could see rows and rows of shelves, boxes of all shapes and sizes stacked on them. Her boots clicked against the grimy surface of the floor as they entered the warehouse, other thugs running back and forth and several glanced their way as they passed. It was thankfully much warmer inside here, the mechanism of the door whining as it closed behind them. Overhead lights occasionally flickered as they walked through.

The shelves were arranged mostly along the sides of the interior of the warehouse, leaving a sizeable clearing of empty space in the middle. In another corner, a pair of thugs were arguing over something, disassembling and reassembling a rifle of some kind. Draped over the walls at regular intervals were black banners, emblazoned with the image of a red Beowulf, intersected by three slashes. With all the activity going on inside here, there must have been at least a hundred people in total within this warehouse.

The group came to a halt near the center and the lead thug in the front pushed her back when she went a step too far.

"W-wait here," he snapped, standing to attention, the others doing the same. Around them, the other thugs stopped what they were doing and stood in place, looking up at something. She heard steps from overhead and looked up to see someone walking on the catwalk above, coming into view a moment later.

His white jacket had a high collar, over a black shirt. He wore what looked like black running pants, a pair of metallic bracers covering muscular arms. A tattoo wound its way around his left arm but his most distinctive feature was the mask he wore: a bone-white Grimm mask with a pair of red eyes, two streaks of crimson tracing down from beneath it like tears of blood.

Her eyes were drawn most of all to the weapon he dragged behind him, an enormous gray, chainsaw that he held onto by its pistol grip.

A few of the thugs around her kept their weapons trained on her, but most of them stood at attention, looking at the man above.

"What do we have here?" he rumbled, chuckling. "We appear to have caught a stray."

"W-we saw him from a good distance out, s-s-sir," said the thug in the front. "Was walking towards here f-f-for a while."

The masked man shifted the chainsaw from one hand to the other, looking down at her curiously. "Is that right? Why don't we see what's under that cloak of yours, stranger."

A pair of thugs on each side of her approached her, roughly taking her cloak and ripping it up and off of her head, revealing her form underneath.

The man on the catwalk took one look at her and laughed. "Not a 'he,' at all. Seems we just have a little girl to deal with."

Around her, the other thugs heckled her along with the man above. One of them tugged at the white band wrapped around her neck, just above her black, sleeveless top. She kept her arms raised but looked down slightly to examine herself. Her weapon was still firmly in place at her side, caught snug in the magnetic holster around the black stockings she wore, fading to purple as they reached her black boots. A patterned black-and-violet cloth hung about her waist, draping down behind her to reach past her knees, a golden cord wrapped around it.

Still laughing mockingly, the masked thug above said, "So, what's a cute human girl like you want with the White Fang?"

She looked back up to lock eyes with the man on the catwalk. "There's someone I'm looking for," she said tonelessly, ignoring the weapons still aimed at her. "Someone you've worked with before. You will tell me where _he_ is."

The man in the Grimm mask chuckled again, "And whoever this 'he' is… what will you do if I refuse, miss?" he said, amusement shot through his voice.

"I'll take out everyone here, destroy everything in this building, and burn this place to the ground," she said, her voice perfectly level.

The masked man said nothing for a moment before he threw back his head and roared with laughter. Around her, the other thugs were laughing alongside him. The man shook his head, wiping away an invisible tear on his mask.

"It's been a long time since a human's made me laugh like that. For that… I think I'm going to give you something of a chance." He gestured towards the ground. "Why don't you guys take this as an opportunity to practice some of things I've taught you? We don't get live targets to _play with_ all that often. Take your time with her."

The White Fang thugs around her leered, withdrawing weapons and slowly circling around her. More thugs around the warehouse drew closer, apparently wanting their own opportunity to get in the action. The masked man watched the events unfold, a glint of amusement in his eyes behind the mask.

"Sure you just don't want to run away and go home, little girl?" he said, teasingly.

She put a hand to the sword at her side. "I'm tired of running,"

He looked down at her almost curiously. "You know, you look a little familiar…"

One of the thugs in front of her to her stopped moving, his hands trembling. "Uh, boss…"

"Yes?" he said, still peering at her.

"That – that sword!" he stammered, backing up away slightly. "It's – it's—"

In a single, fluid movement, she unsheathed the curved sword with the scraping of steel on steel, slashing at the air in front of her and at the thug that just spoke. She was suddenly surrounded by the sound of a wailing wind, images flashing before her eyes as her destination grew within her sight almost instantaneously. Just before that, she saw the thug in her mind's eye and she hit him once across the chest with the flat of the blade just as she passed, amethyst light trailing behind the blade.

In an almost kaleidoscopic blur, she saw hundreds of others strike in unison with her, existing only for the fraction of the instant it took her to travel from her point of departure to her destination.

She landed some distance away from him, standing next to a pair of shelves, black hair swaying and the cloth around her waist fluttering. Spinning the blade once, she turned around to see the thug land face-first, his Aura gone in an instant, hundreds of welts and bruises now littered across his body.

A stunned silence greeted her.

"It's the Black Shroud!" another thug shouted and just like that, the mass of White Fang members, at least a hundred strong minus one, went into a frenzy. They struggled to get their bearings on her, several firing erratically at her as even more tried running away. In their panic, they had forgotten that they were all around her and shooting at her meant they were also shooting at _each other_. Several White Fang thugs yelped in pain, caught by the bullets of their own allies, and a few elected to switch to knives and axes instead.

"Kill her, kill her!" shouted the masked White Fang thug above, hefting his chainsaw in two hands as he ran back along the catwalk and out of view. "Spread out!"

She calmly parried a bout of gunfire before she looked in the direction of the exit, which was slowly re-opening, a group of fifteen or more thugs running for it. She cut at the air again, towards the amassed group. The world disappeared once more into a roaring gale, as though she was caught in the middle of a tornado. Violet light blazed with each strike of her sword and sheath, each target visible for only an instant as she struck each one once, the whole group caught within the grip of her power.

Forty individual strikes in total, between sword and sheath.

Thousands more followed at the same time.

Twenty bodies fell, unconscious, bruised, and some a little bloodied.

The White Fang thugs in the warehouse were screaming in panic and fear now and she idly teleported away from a Dust round that tore open a hole in the floor before instantly taking down another fifteen or so. Her sword had jerked as she had approached that group, almost bringing the edge rather than the flat of the blade in line with them.

She looked down at her sword curiously for a moment before looking back up.

She only stood at one spot for a fraction of an instant before she would disappear again with a swing of her sword, cutting down all in her path with hundreds to thousands of simultaneous strikes. With the sheer number of times she was attacking, a person's Aura would last for only the barest sliver of a second before disappearing.

When she was in the middle of battle like this, the only thing her enemies would see was the flash just before they were struck down. Within moments, she could clear entire rooms, filling the atmosphere with black blurs mixed with violet light, a result of her successive teleportation, too fast to catch before she was gone again. To anyone witnessing her fight, it would appear as though flashes of black smoke would pop into existence, leaving only bodies in their wake.

So they called her the 'Black Shroud.'

One group was trying to procure several rocket launchers off the shelves by the looks of it. She didn't give them a moment to prepare before she was in their midst, all ten falling unconscious and limp behind her. She had been ready to go to sleep before, but being caught in the middle of battle like this was rousing her once more.

All the same, this wasn't even a challenge. Another slash—followed by thousands more—and another twenty or so fell. The remaining thugs she could see were loosely collected near the center of the warehouse, spread out into groups of five or ten, to keep her from taking them all out at once.

It was time to finish this.

She cut at the ground, looking at a spot more than thirty feet away. Hundreds of blows struck against the floor, carving a long, ragged gouge and sending up a plume of dust, obscuring her from view just as a bullets slammed into where she was before.

Tracers blurred past her as a line of gunfire weaved through the smoke, gouging out holes in the concrete as it tracked towards her. She snapped on the black ribbon to the bottom of the sword's handle, and with a flick of her hand, the blade folded in on itself, resting atop the pistol that formed the sword's handle. She slashed out with the rectangular sheath in her other hand, plunging through the smoke and landing in the middle of several White Fang members at once, a trail of bodies in her wake.

Gunfire blazed above her head as she ducked, thrusting the transformed sword into the ground. Ensuring that the ribbon was secure, she teleported forward again using her sheath in one hand, holding onto the ribbon firmly with her other, a quartet of White Fang thugs collapsing behind her as she reached her destination. She quickly tested the ribbon again—it was taut.

The snare was set.

They didn't have any time to react before she began to teleport rapidly with each cut of her sheath, not striking directly at them, but at the air _beside them_. The ribbon followed her the entire time as she moved quickly in the profile of a misshapen circle, the ribbon wrapping around them, pulling them towards the center as they tripped and fell. Dragging back on the ribbon returned the folded sword to her side, and she quickly snapped out with it to extend it back to its full length. The thugs were still stunned, now in a neat pile where the sword had been before.

In a black-and-amethyst blur of howling wind, she finished them off, leaving only crumpling bodies to slump to the ground behind her.

She spun the sword at her side a couple of times before returning it to its sheath and holstered it once more at her hip, before looking back to examine her work. Bodies were littered throughout the warehouse, more than a few with broken bones, several shelves had been knocked down during the excitement, and the floor and walls were peppered with bullet holes and gouges from her sword strikes.

It had been all of twenty seconds and nearly one hundred people were downed. She must have been really sleepy for it to have taken so long this time.

After a second, there was a low rumbling noise, the ground lightly quaking. She stumbled a little, catching her balance as something walked out of another large open door at the corner of the warehouse.

It was large and bulky, at least three times her height. Powerful mechanical legs moved up and down as it advanced, the entire thing covered in white and black armor. Its arms hung at its sides, raised above its almost insectile 'head' that hung at the center.

An Atlesian Paladin.

The floor shook with each step as it came at her, guns and other weapons popping out from its arms and other compartments.

" _How do you like this?_ " roared a voice from inside the machine. " _Latest model, courtesy of Atlas! Don't think you can try the same tricks you used to take out my men!_ "

She simply drew her sword once again, making sure the Dust vial was set, and slashed at the air in front of her. The world blurred as her destination approached and she struck against the Paladin, but it wasn't really the sword strike she was interested in, even as thousands of others attacked with her. She landed at her intended target with a crouch, the sound of the roaring wind dying away, and she immediately heard the resounding booms of the amassed detonations behind her. Metal screeched and screamed and she turned around to see the Paladin collapsing some distance away, a line of fire between where she had started and where she was now. It dissipated as the Paladin crumpled into a heap of scrap.

" _What?_ " screamed the voice inside, someone kicking aside the ruined covering of the cockpit, and revealing the masked thug from earlier. He staggered to his feet, jumping off just before the cockpit exploded, sending him tumbling gracelessly to the ground.

"How did you—"

Another slash of the sword and he was unconscious at her feet, his body peppered with hundreds of welts and swellings. She ripped off the mask, revealing a tanned and scarred face. Sheathing her sword, she grabbed him by the collar and dragged his unconscious body out towards the wall, propping him up against it. She kicked him between the legs and he awoke with a shout of pain, just before she drew the sword and held the edge against his throat.

He abruptly stopped making sounds at that point, his cries trailing away into a strangled gasp.

Looking down at him, she could see traces of fear in his eyes, someone caught completely out of his depth.

"As I told you before," she said in a level voice, "I'm going to put down your men, destroy everything inside, and burn this place to the ground. I've already done the first. I'll do the last two once I'm done with you. I just want a few questions answered before then."

"Heh," the White Fang thug said, sneering, the slight tremble in his voice betraying him, "you'd be an idiot to think I'd ever sell out."

"Everyone has their price," she said, pushing the sword up harder against his throat.

"W-what is it you even want to know?" he said, pressing himself against the wall, as if trying to pass right through it.

"Didn't you say you found me familiar?" she said. "Look at my face. Look _carefully_ at my eyes."

He did just that, examining her before his eyes widened. "You! You were the one on—"

"Yes," she interrupted. "You know who I'm looking for. The same one that led your forces at Beacon."

"Look," he said, licking his lips. "Even if I did know, do you even _know_ what they do to traitors in this organization?"

"I have an idea of it. I also don't care. _I'm_ the problem you'd have to deal with first."

Something about that got through to him and his whole body tensed. Then he relaxed, a grin breaking across his face. "No, no, I think you're just bluffing. You wouldn't do something like that."

Her eyes narrowed. "I don't think you understand what's going on here."

"No," he said, laughing, "I understand perfectly. I've heard about you, 'Black Shroud.' You go around, hitting up any and all White Fang haunts you can find. You drift from place to place, doing nothing but chasing after us. They say you go without food and sleep for days sometimes, just trying to track us down."

"And for all that," he said, sneering, "you've never killed once. You could more than easily do it with whatever it is you do, but you don't. You could have killed everyone inside here, left us as nothing but chopped pieces, but you didn't."

He chuckled. "I mean, yeah, you put on this super badass act, but you don't actually follow up on it at all. I've heard the reports. You go out of your way to avoid hurting people for good. You didn't cross the line then, you didn't cross the line now, and you won't cross it here. So, I don't think I have anything to worry about from you."

She contemplated the blade at his throat, took in the curve of its edge. Her eyes were drooping with tiredness again and she wanted to do nothing more than curl up and take a nap. She shook her eyes awake and glanced at the sword again, a dull sheen along its length from the light. Her fingers twitched as she slightly raised a hand towards the man, before she lowered it again.

Then she slammed the man's hand down to the ground, pulling him along with it, leaving him on his stomach. He gave a yelp but she sat on top of him, holding his hand out, the sword in her other hand. He tried lifting himself with his hands, but he was still too injured from her attack before.

"What – what are you doing?" he shouted in panic.

She didn't answer him, bringing the sword to his hand, letting it rest near the knuckles.

"Wait, wait!" he pleaded from under her. "I didn't mean it, I didn't—"

The sword twitched in her hand, oddly stiff, resisting her movement for some reason. She waited for a moment, curious as to why her hand wasn't obeying her. She pressed harder and the blade pierced his skin, drawing blood. He gave off a ragged moan as she slowly dragged the edge back and forth as if carving a steak and she watched the blood spill.

She withdrew the blade slightly, before shifting it forwards up his hand. The blade trembled in her grasp again and she gripped the handle tightly until it went away. He was screaming something else as the steel approached his fingers and she found the sword twitching once again, an invisible barrier impeding her progress. After a moment, she _pushed_ , and the thug screamed as blood flowed, the sword starting to sink into the flesh and about to enter the bone before—

A shot slammed into the wall right beside her head, sending up a small puff of concrete dust. In an instant, she drew the sword back to her side, rising to her feet and whirling around to cut down the threat that had tried to—

Her breath caught, body stiff. She stared for a moment, staying utterly still. Her fingers went slack and the sword fell from her hands, clattering against the floor. The masked thug was moaning. She didn't glance at him—she only had eyes for the figure before her.

"You missed a spot," the woman said, kicking at a thug who was on the ground, a gun a few feet away from his hands. She looked back up at her, a wide grin on her pale face as she began to approach.

"You know," the woman said in a scolding tone, "you can be a very hard person to find at times. I was about ready to start asking fortune tellers just to get a clue. Lucky I managed to track you down here abouts."

Her hips rolled with a womanly gait as she approached, her voluminous blonde hair swaying with each step, shining lightly with an unnatural radiance. She wore a black long coat, reaching past her knees, parted in the middle to reveal a white top, secured with a black-and-gold belt, and thigh-high black stockings. She held her left hand at her hip, her right sleeve limp and hanging, as though it were empty. The woman kept grinning the whole time as she came closer, as if she had just heard a really funny joke.

It didn't reach her eyes, bright lilac tinged with hints of red.

She could only observe the woman approaching, making no move to retrieve the sword on the ground. She tried to say something, but her voice caught in her throat. Coughing, she finally opened her mouth.

"Y—"

She stumbled backward, her right cheek on fire. She crashed against the wall, holding a hand to her throbbing cheek, as she stared dumbly up at the blonde, whose fist was outstretched. She had felt the force of that blow all the way through her Aura.

"That," the woman said quietly, "was for running away again and leaving everyone behind."

Her eyes blazed red. "And this…"

She could have easily stepped away. She didn't. As the blonde retracted her fist, she only closed her eyes, waiting for the inevitable punch. Instead, she felt a sudden pressure around her shoulders and she opened her eyes to find herself in a crushing one-armed hug.

"And this is for still being alright," the blonde whispered.

Her hands lung limply at her sides, as she tried and failed to speak. After a second, something wet splashed down her face and onto the woman's back. She blinked, her eyes blurring. Before long, as liquid dripped and dripped, tears were streaming down her cheeks. A lump rose in her throat as she tried to speak but only a ragged sob escaped her.

She collapsed to her knees, the woman following down with her as she blubbered and bawled. There wasn't anything dignified about it—it was raw and unrestrained, making a mess of her face and the woman's shoulder.

"It's okay, it's okay," the woman said soothingly, rubbing circles with her hand on her back, as she tucked her head against hers.

After some time, her sobbing trailed off into sniffles and hiccuping coughs. She pulled back from the woman, who was teary-eyed herself, brilliant lilac eyes looking right at her, her own amber eyes reflected back.

"You've… been gone for a while. It wasn't easy for me," the blonde said quietly. "And it looks like it hasn't been easy for you either."

She laughed with a hiccup in response, wiping away tears with a hand. "How – how did you find me?"

The blonde woman poked her nose and she scowled slightly in response. "With lots and lots of hard work. You weren't exactly being subtle when you were off chasing the White Fang everywhere, Miss 'Black Shroud.'"

For the first time in months, she felt her cheeks flush in embarrassment. "It's not my fault that they don't listen when I tell them what to do."

The blonde smirked. "Sounds like an argument you've had with yourself before."

In spite of the circumstances, she found herself smiling, the old dynamic already beginning to resurface. "What about R—"

"Shh," the woman said, putting a finger to her lips. The blonde rose, holding a hand out to her. After a moment's reluctance, she took it, and was pulled back to her feet. The blonde jerked a head over to the downed White Fang thug she had been about to… interrogate.

"We've still got company," the woman said. "And I have a pretty good idea of who you've been looking for this whole time."

A flash of red sparked through the blonde's eyes. "And I'd like to have a word or two with him myself. I'm coming with you." She glared at her. "And that's _not_ negotiable."

She looked searchingly at the blonde for a moment, who stood resolutely, as if daring her to defy her. Finally, she nodded hesitantly and the blonde relaxed.

She stooped down and picked up the sword at her feet, returning to her sheath. The woman meanwhile was turning over the thug, propping him back up against the wall with her left arm, his eyes darting back and forth between the two of them with no small amount of trepidation.

"We'll exchange stories after, alright?" the blonde muttered, looking back at her. "For now…"

She stepped in line with the blonde, gazing at the thug, the same focus from before beginning to return.

"We've got a question," the blonde said quietly, her hair beginning to glow a bright gold, fire licking at the sides.

She stepped back in surprise when she saw that the woman's empty right sleeve expanded, as what looked like inky-black smoke poured out. The smoke coalesced into the shape of a clenched fist, trapped against some invisible barrier that formed the outline of an arm and a hand, with… claws.

The blonde turned back to face the thug, bringing her shadowy fist before his wide eyes, opening it to reveal a ball of orange-red flame, the heat sweltering even from where she stood. The blonde's eyes burned red as the fire flickered.

"Where is Adam Taurus?"

—

 **Blake's new uniform is drawn from her second alt costume from the** _ **Henceforward**_ **fan manga, without the mask and the white strips:** **kumafromtaiwan DOT tumblr DOT com SLASH image SLASH 123989191881**

 **As for Yang, beneath her long coat, she's wearing her black-and-white Hunter uniform, but with a more muted white and no purple sash.**


End file.
